


The Great Resisting Surge of New-Won Life

by depugnare



Series: Firebird [4]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Grief, Heartbreak, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Wartime Romance, it's a thing, lamia newt, sucking dick under enemy fire, theseus is facecast as chris pine idk that new man, wwi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 01:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10798881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depugnare/pseuds/depugnare
Summary: Theseus Scamander was touted as a war hero, the great monster slayer, the man who never lost a duel.They never said how he got those titles.





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Chris Pine has been fancast as Theseus, that happened long before official casting, I do not accept that man they have picked.
> 
> 2\. In traditional folklore, Lamia was a queen that was the mistress of Zeus, and Hera killed her children and turned her into a monster. She is usually depicted as half snake, though that comes later. She is a demon that eats children out of grief for her own (in some versions, Hera forces her to eat her own children), cursed to keep her eyes open forever so that she always sees the image of her own dead children. A Lamia in this is a woman who has been cursed like this and Newt and Theseus' mother had a Lamia for a distant ancestor and she has passed this blood on mostly to Newt, hence their eyes and his 'mothering' of creatures.

_ Your first memory of magic was the glowing yellow of your mother’s eyes at night. She sat by your window until you fell asleep, keeping watch in those early days when your father was often away on business. You did not know it then, but she was listening to the wind and the sounds it carried. If all was quiet in the stables, you were safe. The hippogriffs would let her know if there was danger. _

 

_ You are three years old and you see her lamplight eyes as always, sitting by the window as you drift off to sleep. They do not frighten you, you have known only love from their gaze, but you know they hide something in your mother that is not normal. Her eyes are usually a bright, warm blue. Human, like your own. Every night your father is not home, she is not human. _

 

_ Tonight is no different. Your father is away on business, trying to build the reputation of the Scamander name in London, and your mother is perched at the window like a hawk. She stares out into the night, and even you can hear the hippogriff screeching from the stables. Something is out there in the dark, in the forests that surround the manor. _

 

_ She comes over and sweeps your hair back from your forehead, eyes soft with love as she leans down to kiss your forehead. _

 

_ “Sleep,” she croons. “It will all be over when you wake up in the morning.” _

 

_ The last thing you remember is the noise of the hippogriffs screaming and your mother’s  figure in the doorway, silhouette shifting taller in the low light of the fire. _

 

_ “Sleep,” she says again from across the room, and you obey.  _

 

_ You dream of a black snake curled around you, softly hissing, a sweet tune your own mother often sings. You sleep atop her clutch of eggs and she keeps you warm, scales smooth against your skin as she winds in smaller and smaller circles around you. You are too young to question why you sleep within a dream, too young to recognize death, just as the snake curls tight around your throat. _

 

_ You dream, and in the morning when you wake, your mother is there again by the window keeping watch. She smiles at you and comes over to pick you up. You twist your fingers in her hair as she carries you downstairs _

 

_ Her hair is the same color as the snake. _

\---

  
  


Theseus studies the world around him with the eye of an eldest son, always analyzing, always cataloguing. Even at six he has a keen sense for the thoughts of others around him. The other noblemen are distant with his father, wary of their Greek name. Wizards and muggles alike are not so friendly to foreigners, outsiders never fully accepted into society despite being born into them. It did not help that Theseus’ mother was from Crete, an island known for still be riddled with dangerous mythical creatures that the human inhabitants let roam free.

 

They made quite the pair, his pale father and raven-haired mother. Both tall, he always felt safe standing between them in the face of noble wizarding society. His father was second generation and still the Scamander family had not found their place among the upper tier of the aristocracy, but it did not matter so much in the world of business. Theseus’ mother was the best hippogriff breeder in Europe and his father traded in medical supplies so fine, no one else could compete. They were wealthy and honorable, and that was enough to make them noble. That made Theseus a noble child, expected to behave in public and to pay attention to the way his parents interacted with everyone around them.

 

So he watched, and listened, and learned quite well. Learned the face of a lying man. Learned the fake laughter of a displeased woman. Learned to flatter and outwit. Theseus became a businessman at his father’s elbow, studying the art of trade and numbers. At his mother’s side, he became skilled in magic despite not yet owning a wand.

 

“Magic,” his mother would tell him as she brushed the coats of her hippogriffs, “Is a living thing. It must be respected and nourished. Do you understand?”

 

He nodded, watching as grooming tools floated over to her with barely a flick of her fingers.

 

“Many think that magic must be controlled with words, wands, potions and charms. It’s true that these things help control magic, but they are not necessary to  _ produce _ magic.”

 

She knelt down and took his hands, held them up so they were at a height with his eyes. Her eyes met his, blue against blue.

 

“All you need are your hands. Your magic will do the rest. Be patient and listen. It’s there inside of you, and you only need ask for it to show itself. Remember this, and you will be one of the finest wizards the world has ever seen.”

 

Theseus closed his eyes and listened. Deep inside his chest, there came a sound like the long, low tone of a violin. His magic. He asked it to produce a single daisy, his mother’s favorite flower. It sang, high and sweet, and there in his palm bloomed a crown daisy. It’s golden center glowed for a moment, before dimming into a soft butter yellow.

 

He held it out to his mother and she smiled.

 

“See? Your magic only needs a bit of love. Never forget that  _ paidi mou _ . Promise me that.”

 

“I promise.”

 

It would be a hard one to keep.

\---

  
  


_ You were going to be something great. Something to be feared. You would be tall and strong, like your father. His pride and joy. You went out in the field with him, watched him clear the grounds himself like it was nothing. You were in every way the apple of his eye, a child who looked like him, smiled like him, killed like him. _

 

_ You enjoyed hunting with him, crouched in the shadows of the woods. Waiting for the opportune moment to strike prey down. It was not a vicious thing, you simply liked the order of things. Deer ate grass and humans ate deer. Wolves killed humans, men killed wolves. So it goes. You liked being in the woods even more, following your father along a twisting path that only he seemed to know. _

 

_ Years later, you would be the only soldier able to wander the trenches without getting lost, as though your father was still in front of you guiding the way. _

 

_ But you did not know that yet, and for now you were seven years old and on top of the world. Nothing could hurt you and you were the center of your parents’ love, basking in the warmth of their pride. You were turning into a fine boy, at home in your place in the world and finally fitting into the rules that went along with that. _

 

_ Then, however, came your younger brother, who made you want to tear the rules of the world apart. Who would make it all too clear that your role in life was not to be a peaceful one, but rather one like that of your namesake. _

 

_ A warrior. A hero. _

 

_ A tragedy. _

 

\---

 

Theseus will look back when he’s older, and wonder what it was in his blood that made him the way he is. Newt could be explained somewhat, with his yellow eye the same as their mother’s. He was always going to tread the line between creature and wizard.  _ Lamia _ , they were something more than wizard, something less than human.

 

There is no explanation for Theseus.

 

He tried to look once, held his hand up to the sky searching for magic in the sun-filtered red of his blood. Listened for the source of his magic by tapping at his bones, flexing his joints, holding his breath. Still, nothing but the steady sound of his heart.

 

There was no reason for the way magic flowed from his fingertips easier than words had ever come out of his mouth. There was no logic behind why he barely had to flick his wand before the desired spell was spilling out. Magic listened to him like nothing else, the only clear and certain thing in his life. 

 

“Why?” he asked his mother once, seeking an answer like the one she’d given him so long ago.

 

She shook her head.

 

“I can’t tell you that my darling. The magic user is the only one who knows where their magic comes from.”

 

Theseus wondered what it meant that he didn’t know.

 

\---

 

_ You were sorted into slytherin and your father was conflicted. Slytherin meant ambition, but it also meant cunning. It meant being driven to succeed, but at any cost. That was the ideal businessman, but not a very good gentleman. Your family was barely noble, but noble it was, and you were the heir.  _

 

_ “Don’t worry Thee,” your father told you, ruffling your hair. “There is much honor in snakes too.” _

 

_ Your mother is pleased, folds you into her when you come home for summer break. You stare up at her, for she’s tall, almost as tall as father, and see those yellow eyes of hers staring back. Yes, you were a snake now, just like her. Now you became your mother’s child, when for so long you have been just like your father. Perhaps now you would enjoy the understanding your mother and younger brother had, the two of them something  _ **_more_ ** _ than you and your father would ever be.  _

 

_ “There is nothing to be ashamed of you know, sweet boy. You have a good heart, even if you do not have my eyes. You will be a good man, tall, strong, for protecting others.” _

 

_ She was right, in a way. You were good at protecting others, especially your brother whom you adored and he you. He was still small that first summer home from Hogwarts, and you were content to bustle after him as he explored outside and seemed to revel in getting filthy. Recently turned five year olds are like that. _

 

_ Newt was like your mother. The animals watched him and obeyed him, from the most gentle bird to the most poisonous adder. They loved him and you could not blame them, it was hard not to want to put that bright smile on your brother’s face. You loved very deeply, and that to was a Slytherin trait. Slytherin students could be kind, could be noble, could want to make the world a better place. You would make it honorable. _

 

_ Being sorted into Slytherin, however, would not be the biggest challenge you would face during your years at Hogwarts. No, you realized halfway into your fifth year, your first as head boy, that you were attracted to the head boy of Gryffindor. Not the raven-haired beauty who served as head girl at your side in Slytherin, nor any of the other girls around you. You found them beautiful, all girls were beautiful to you, but you did not want to press your lips against theirs. You did not want to tangle your fingers in their hair and feel their skin beneath your palms. _

 

_ No, you wanted to do that with David. Bold, brave David who rivaled you on the quidditch field and always wanted to duel in defense class. David, with curly hair the color of planting soil. David with eyes like honey. David whose voice sounded like growing things, whose smile was like being struck by lightning. You wanted to wrap yourself around him and bury that smile beneath your ribs. Keep it safe in your heart.  _

 

_ You hated yourself for it. Hated that you felt this way, even though such a thing could not be evil. Could not be depraved and dirty and disgusting. You thought David was beautiful, terracotta skin a work of love from the earth herself. You wanted to hold his hands between yours and keep them soft and gentle. Rub away the calluses and kiss their holy palms. Such a thing could not be wrong, and yet you know your feelings would be met with disapproval. You were an  _ **_heir_ ** _ , and heirs were meant to marry a lady of the house and produce more heirs. You could not let him go though. _

 

_ One day you saw David staring back, and you smiled. His face lit up and he jogged over from across the pitch, stood in front of you and asked if you wanted to study by the lake later. Yes, you said. You’d like that. You did not care what others thought, not if you could see that smile on David’s face again. Nothing else mattered but seeing that smile again.  _

 

_ So on the shore of the lake, you sat by David and held his hand. It was warm, just like you thought it would be. David leaned over and whispered that you had beautiful eyes. You blushed, and whispered back “Yours are more beautiful.” You both laughed. You kissed. First David kissed your hand and you his cheek. Then you both leaned forward and pressed your lips together. You kissed and kissed that night on the shore, pointed to the stars and breathed life into the stationary constellations. _

 

_ Orion and his hunt, Canis the Great Dog, Aquila the eagle, Cassiopea the queen. You wove tales for him, swirling lights erupting from your fingertips. David told stories of his own in return, of the king he was named for and the great giant he defeated. Daniel and the lion’s den. Queen Esther and her bravery. So you forged a bond in stories, and spent the year in love. _

 

_ It was sweet, but it did not last. _

 

_ David is muggleborn and you cannot risk writing him over the summer, so you spent your 16th summer of life in mourning. Grieved for the way David’s hands shook when he let go of you on that last night together. It hurt you more than your own broken heart. Your parents looked at you in worry, wondering why you were so sad. _

 

_ You told your mother you had not done well on your exams, but the report that arrived home later in June had outstanding next to every subject. _

 

_ It was a kinder lie to tell. _

 

\---

 

The summer after graduation was a strange one. Theseus was an adult, and yet not an adult. He was caught in that anxious in-between, hovering at the edge of responsibility. He wishes he could turn to stone, become a statue in Medusa’s garden rather than face the possibility of disgrace.

 

His parents were already disappointed, their heir gone off to become a lawman of all things. They had built a trading empire, only for him to reject all they’d sacrificed. All the struggles that had come with a Greek name in a wizarding culture still rooted firmly in the throes of old English. Scamander, named for an ill-fated river god. There were still wizards that would not trade with his father, superstitious to the end.

 

Theseus could not explain to them how he felt drawn to the work of aurors, that the idea of hunting down criminals thrilled him.That the chance to stop violence in its tracks was irresistible. The idea of being able to hoard clues and piece them together into a story, into a conviction, was intoxicating.

 

Always hunting, that was Theseus.

 

Being an auror was incredibly good for his sense of focus, giving him something into which  he could pour every ounce of effort he had. It was easy to ignore the initial displeasure of his parents when he was able to send home personal commendations from the Minister himself. It made it softer, and eventually they accepted his career choice and grew proud of him again. Simple, especially when his younger brother was busy being a delinquent at Hogwarts and making a nuisance of himself.

 

It did not make it any easier to stop falling in love so easily. That was Theseus’ curse, catching sight of a man and wanting them so badly he could eat them whole. He loved too hard, too fast, and always hurt for it in the end. The auror office was filled with such temptations, so Theseus spent as much time in the field as possible, far away from others. He disappeared into deep cover missions, took on so many new identities that sometimes he lost himself. 

 

Theseus Scamander had become a ghost with no name.

 

It was time he took it back again.

  
\---

 

_ You sensed it coming from miles away. Flicked your tongue out and tasted smoke in the air. Clenched your teeth and felt empty cartridges scrape at your gums. Europe was a powder keg about to explode. _

 

_ War. _

 

_ The muggles were itching for it, bones about to shake out of their skin. Eyes wide, pupils dilated in the search for prey. Monsters in their blood prying their way out, crawling up their throats. You could sense it all, see it in their faces, in the way they clawed at their hair. _

 

_ War was coming. _

 

_ You wanted to howl with it, hands flexing, curling them knuckle to knuckle. Rolled your head and bared your teeth in a smile. A trembling in your spine, the need to fight. To shake off the dust of the office, the banality of arresting petty criminals day after day. You looked into the faces of the Wizengamot with glittering eyes, took pleasure in how they leaned away. Told them where to shove their order to stay out of muggle affairs.  _

 

_ Your time had come. _

 

_ War was here. _

 


	2. During

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 1914 at the start of the war, Newt is 17, Graves and Seraphina are 23, and Theseus is 24.

The war taught him many things. First of which was that you can only depend on the men in front of your wand to die and nothing else. It taught him the sound of bullet casings tinkling against the dirt, sleighbells in the muddy snow.  It taught him you will never trust your own men to stay alive, but you can depend on them to die trying.

 

Theseus tries so hard, to protect muggle and wizard alike. Tries to keep the blood from making the already muddy ground into an iron-scented quagmire. It does not work. War is expensive and for there to be no death would be a waste.

 

The hardest to protect is his brother, painfully young and sweet, from the poisonous atmosphere of battle. It has not worked so far and his brother, always slender, has grown dangerously thin and haunted looking after a year at war. The other side of him is always rattling around under Newt’s skin, he can feel it. Sees that yellow eye flickering in the dark, a light struggling not to go out.

 

He puts his hand on Newt’s back, presses at his spine as though he could reach through his skin and straighten it. His brother does not tremble like the other younger boys, and that is what worries Theseus the most. His brother doesn’t shake, not one bit, and he turns to look at Theseus with a dead man’s face, rigor mortis empty. 

 

“Newt,” he whispers, pulls his brother back from the trench wall. “Newt, don’t.”

 

Newt shivers under his palm, turns to look Theseus in the eye. They are at a height, but Theseus suddenly feels so small. Newt’s eyes are sunken, ringed in purple from lack of sleep. His right one is a sickly reptilian yellow. His brother leans forward, mouth against Theseus’ ear.

 

“Watch me,” he hisses, and Theseus can feel their cursed blood freeze in his veins. His brother leaps over the edge of the trench, and Theseus scrambles forward to peek over the top.

 

Newt runs full speed at the Ukrainian Ironbelly across no-man’s land, before apparating past the circle of muggles shooting at the dragon. He reappears atop the dragon’s  head, wand slinging white hot fire at the chains crippling its wings. The dragon swings its head around, sending the muggles flying. Newt doesn’t stumble from his perch on the dragon’s snout.

 

“Guess that brother of yours finally got over himself didn’t he, eh Lieutenant?”

 

Theseus doesn’t look over at the sergeant when he replies, too busy watching his baby brother calm a ten-ton dragon. He itches to apparate over when Newt apparates to the ground, dangerously close to the dragon’s enormous talons. 

 

“I suppose he did.”

 

He writes home to their mother that night, tells her she was right.

 

Newt was not human.

 

\---

  
  


_ The trenches do something to you. Make you harder, crueler, empty. Like the cold, loamy earth has leeched into your chest and settled as a pneumonia of the heart. For the first time in your life, you do not care. It’s exhilarating. To let the ice settle over your emotions and charge into battle with only one thing on your mind. _

 

_ Victory, at any cost. _

 

_ You explode across the battlefield and cut down all those in your path. You do not lose a single duel, bullets curve around you, the night hides you from the prying eyes of scouts. You were born for war and this is the most hideous war the world has ever seen. You become Theseus Monster-Slayer, the man who fought a dragon and killed it single-handedly.  _

 

_ (You did not mention it nearly killed you in the process and that it drove a rift so deep between you and your brother that you haven’t spoken in months. The scars from the dragon’s claws in your side still ache, like your brother had healed them wrong on purpose.) _

 

_ You were losing yourself again, your name outpacing you, your reputation gnawing at your throat. This time, you’ve a ghost with too famous a name. The man has died to make room for the legend. The curse of the Greek hero. You were killing people, and in the process, killing yourself. _

 

**_He_ ** _ brings you back to earth. _

 

_ The american wizard with the wild eyes. The one perched like a loyal hound at the side of one of their officers. He looks at you from across the tent and pins you with a stare. You feel his hands run across your body even though you both still on opposite sides of the meeting table. He smiles, slow and sweet like syrup. Runs his tongue over sharp teeth. _

 

_ Oh. _

 

_ You would do anything for the noose of his hand to be around your throat. _

 

__ \--- _ _

 

 

Graves is all warm flesh in a world of metal and rotting wood, his skin so smooth against Theseus’ hands after three years of clawing at the earth. Graves feels like life pressed against him, sweat slick as they writhe against each other in the dark. It’s strange to feel a pulse beneath his fingers after so long spent searching for heartbeats on the cold, still bodies of comrades. Like the soft roll of the ocean in the summertime, soothingly matched to the beat of his own heart. 

 

They tumble into one of the empty sections of trench, fresh from a battle and still blood-smeared. Adrenaline pumps through them alongside their magic and it’s evident in how they pull at each other, like dogs starving for meat. They wrestle, pushing and pulling until Theseus finds himself pinned by Graves and he’s alright with that. Pulls him down for a kiss.

 

Graves bites at his lip and Theseus bleeds, tongue flicking out to chase after the salt in his own blood with the desperation of a starving man. He swallows the blood and then chases the sweat pooling at the base of Graves’ throat, yearning for that bitter salt taste again. Theseus is interrupted when Graves makes a fist in his hair and pulls his head back.

 

“I am not something you want to eat,” he gasps, breath hot against Theseus’ neck. “There is no iron for you in my blood. No matter how much I  _ like _ your tongue on me.”

 

Theseus shivers when Graves gently rubs one of those sharp, sharp teeth against the trembling pulse in his throat. He chokes when Graves holds up a hand to his mouth, orders him to lick the palm. He does, and then nearly collapses when the other man reaches down and grasps his cock. Graves laughs, a short breathy thing, and presses a kiss to the underside of Theseus’ jaw. His lips always find a tender, vulnerable place to suck a bruise into.

 

“I love the sounds you make,” he whispers and Theseus stumbles, falling back against the wall of the trench. He hates the way this man makes him feel, like they’re not in a fucking warzone.

 

Graves tugs him up again, presses a hand to his back as he continues to stroke him. Pulls his own cock out and grinds against Theseus. They both stumble then, and Graves lets them settle against the earthen wall this time. Strokes them hard, almost painful as his palm dries. Theseus is slick with precome now though, and Graves soon follows. It’s terrifying and exhilarating, gasping together in the dark.

 

“Shh,” Graves whispers when Theseus cries out. “Shh, shh. Don’t give us away now.”

 

Theseus quiets, and that itself is more erotic than any press of flesh against his own. Graves’ ability to calm the screaming in his chest is a gift Theseus would kill for. Something he  _ has _ killed for. The sex is only an aside, an output for the swirling of magic between the two of them. Graves squeezes both of them at the same time he reaches up and wraps a hand around Theseus’s throat, and Theseus comes with a shout strangled by Graves’ grip.

 

Graves pets him until he stops shaking, hands gentle on his face, soft in his hair. Theseus goes to reach for Graves and the other wizard smacks his hand away. He guides Theseus’ hands over his head, presses them into the wall.

 

“No, no, stay just like that. Look at me.”

 

Theseus does and stops breathing when he sees that wild magic swirling around in Graves’ eyes, teeth glinting white in the darkness. His heart thuds in his chest and when he starts breathing again. It’s the quick, faint gasps of a prey animal. Graves smiles before placing an open mouthed kiss against Theseus’ chest, right over his galloping heartbeat.

 

He comes a moment later, moaning softly against Theseus’ skin. They stay slumped against the wall for a moment, before Graves pulls them up again and tucks himself and Theseus back into their pants. Theseus is still breathless, dazed as he watches his breath steam in the cold December air. Graves grips his face and pulls him down, touching their foreheads together.

 

“God help me, but I do wish I could hold you like this forever.”

 

Theseus closes his eyes and breathes. The hiss of a flare arches over them, and he opens his eyes to see the red light flickering over them. Moments later, spells and mortar fire start up.

 

“I wish you could too,” he croaks, shivering as the alarm rings. They must separate soon and he does not want to let go. He presses his face into Graves’ neck and the other man puts a hand on the back of his neck, fingers carding through his hair.

 

Graves is first to draw back, palm lingering on Theseus’ skin. He presses one last kiss to the corner of Theseus’ mouth before slinking back into the shadows he first appeared out of, no doubt headed back to Captain Picquery’s side. He was  _ her _ hound, after all. 

 

Theseus stares after him long after he’s faded into the darkness, desperate for once last glance of his face.

 

Graves had not looked back.

 

\---

 

_ You end up ruining yourself, emotions getting the better of you. It was distracting, what you had with Graves. It made you soft, warm in you chest, and overly concerned with a man well capable of taking care of himself. It could have been love  and love made you stupid. Everyone knew that stupidity killed soldiers faster than anything, and you could not afford to die and leave your brother alone. So you pushed Graves away, and ended up fighting about it in the rain. You thought you’d be free afterwards. _

 

_ You should have known better. _

 

_ Now you lay gasping in the dirt, taken down by a piece of metal shot from a muggle weapon. Blood pools in your mouth and you can do nothing about it. Your magic will not listen to you and no cries for help can leave your ragged throat. Your blood cools in the freezing winter air, steaming as you struggle for breath. It stinks, like copper pipes moldering in the London tenements. _

 

_ If only you had not driven him away, if only you had just let yourself have one good thing, maybe you wouldn’t be miserable, pathetic fuck bleeding out in the middle of nowhere. Maybe you wouldn’t be so goddamn alone. Graves gone, Newt gone, your men left in the hands of another officer. You’d asked for this assignment. Selfish!  _

 

_ Now you would die and nobody would be there to see it. You close your eyes and hope that you at least pass soon. It’s painful, choking to death on your own blood. You plead with your magic one last time, but it knots in your throat around the iron shrapnel lodged there.  _

 

_ “You’re a mess, Thee, aren’t you?” _

 

_ You open your eyes and there he is, sharp teeth and all. It must be a hallucination, you haven’t seen Graves in months. Not since you’d had that awful fight in the rain.  _

 

_ “Look at you, bleeding from a muggle wound. Hold still.” _

 

_ Graves pulls out his wand and starts muttering in latin, tracing it across your torn-open throat. Your airway clears, but the wound still burns. _

 

_ “It’s going to take a healer to fix this. Come on, let’s get you out of here.” _

 

_ He pulls you up and slings you over his shoulder, and your taller body would have sent him keeling over if he’d been in anything less than top shape. Graves barely makes a sound, supporting you with ease as he apparates you both back to the medical camp. He drops you onto a cot and flags down a healer. _

 

_ “How?” you croak, staring up at him in confusion. _

 

_ “Your second in command told me all about your little temper tantrum. You were supposed to rendezvous with us hours ago. And here I find you bleeding out because you were being too ballsy for your own good.” _

 

_ “Fuck you.” _

 

_ “I already did Thee, now be quiet. The healer will be over in a minute.” _

 

_ You go to argue back again, but your throat flares and you scream. Graves surges forward, shouting, reaching for the blood pouring from your throat again. You slap his hands away and he bares his teeth at you. You can’t chide him, but you know iron would burn the skin right off his bones. _

 

_ “Healer!” Graves shouts, before leaning over to press his hands over your wound.  _ _ The iron of the the shrapnel and your blood makes him flinch, but he holds fast. You gag at the smell of blistering flesh. _

 

_ “For fuck’s sake, he’s bleeding out! Get me a goddamn healer!” _

 

_ You see the flash of silver eyes, feel the cool flow of healing magic, and then there’s nothing but quiet. _

 

_ Finally, some quiet. _

 

__ \--- _ _

 

 

Theseus never returns to the front lines. His throat takes weeks to heal, and he’s sent back on the blighty train to a hospital far away from the trenches. The healers are puzzled as to why his wound has taken so long to heal, even though magic is fickle with iron as it always has been. They cannot prevent the scarring, and it leaves a jagged web of red flesh where his neck joins his chest. 

 

(He wished he could say it pained him, but no. It was more a constant gentle pressure, like Graves’ hand pressing down against his skin. That hurt more than any flesh wound could.)

 

The hospital is white, light reflecting off steel beds and linens constantly being changed. Bandages fluttering in the wind outside as they dry, freshly washed clean of blood. Even the healers and nurses, with their flowing caps, are haloed in white. It makes Theseus’ skin crawl, the sterility of this place.

 

There is no dirt under the fingernails or scratch of rats against wood. There is no screaming, no orders, no crack of mortar fire at night. The air reeks of disinfectant almost as harsh as the sharp tang of poisonous gas.

 

He sleeps a lot of the time. Mostly because he is exhausted, but also to avoid the sight of this place. To forget that he lies on a soft mattress instead of a rickety wood-and-hay bed cobbled together from scraps. He sleeps because it saves him from the ghosts of dying men that scream in his head.

 

The problem is that when Theseus sleeps, he dreams. He dreams of his brother running across vast distances in the dark, gasping for breath as he’s chased by monstrous things that Theseus cannot slay. He dreams of the trenches. Of being swallowed by mud and made to rest by the bones of long dead men. He dreams of Graves, the gentle press of kisses against his throat. Sunlight streaming through the windows of a hotel in Beauvais. Toast and marmalade.

 

Graves comes to visit once, but Theseus is not cognizant for it. He burns with a fever of the mind, magic working to establish equilibrium after suffering such a wound. 

 

“The doctor said you’d be fine…eventually,” says Graves, staring down the ward. Theseus doesn’t answer. “I’m glad.”

 

Then he scribbles something on a piece of paper and presses it into Theseus’  shirt pocket. He lingers, but Theseus doesn’t acknowledge him, stares blankly at the empty bed across from him. Graves leans over, pauses over Theseus’ head. He shuts his eyes, breath shuddering.

 

“Promise me that you will live. You must do this for me, if nothing else.”

 

The kiss he presses to Theseus’ forehead is soft, his lips trembling. An avowal, and a plea. Graves leans his cheek against his temple, voice soft in the other man’s ear.

 

“Write to me when you can.”

 

He leaves, and Theseus is left to sleep again. He lies awake some nights, unable to close his eyes. He watches the man next to him breathe, wetly gasping from gas gangrene. There are some things that even magic cannot fix. This modern war was killing them faster than magic could keep up, tearing witches and wizards apart in ways they never had been before and magic had never been able to cure the troubles of the mind. There was no miracle spell for that.

 

Newt comes to visit him regularly, but Theseus doesn’t react much when his brother speaks to him. Newt takes it in stride, holds his brother’s hand and reads to him from books he’s found across the eastern front. Sometimes Theseus will listen intently, eyes watching Newt’s face. One day, he reaches out and cups his brother’s cheek.

 

Newt looks up with surprise, mouth frozen around the last word he’d read. His older brother’s eyes are clear for once, focused on his own.

 

“Thee?”

 

“When we go home,” Theseus says, thumb softly brushing away a tear from Newt’s cheek, “You can never tell anyone what you’ve done.”

 

Newt reaches up and grasps his brother’s wrist, pulls his hand away.

 

“They will not understand, and they will punish you for it. You can tell no one. Do you understand?  _ No one _ .”

 

“Thee, I-”

 

“No one!” his brother shouts, causing one of the nurses to jump a few beds down the line. 

 

“Alright, alright, I won’t.”

 

“Swear it!”

 

“I swear. On my heart I swear.”

 

Theseus nods and lays back against his pillows, exhausted by his outburst. He sighs, closing his eyes. Newt watches until his breath evens out, slipping back into sleep again. His eyes fall to the bright red scar on his brother’s throat. It’s an unsightly wound, like someone had tried to scratch out his voice. The healer said it had scarred so badly because his brother’s magic had gotten clotted around the shrapnel, had twisted and built up until it began to eat at the wound.

 

Strange, for a human wizard.

 

Newt stares down at Theseus, watching his eyes flicker beneath his eyelids as he dreams. He reaches for them, intent on peeling back the lids to see...to see if they gleam yellow like his own right eye does.

 

“Don’t wake him,” warns a nurse, glaring at him. “He rarely sleeps without thrashing. Why don’t you go get something hot to eat and come back later?”

 

Newt hesitates, staring the woman down and trying to suss out if it’s worth it to argue, before withdrawing his hand. He pulls the blanket up over his brother before he leaves, dozens of thoughts racing through his mind.

 

He’ll keep his theories to himself for now, Theseus has enough to deal with. A monster-slayer should never be told they themselves might be a monster.

 

That always ends in too much blood and tragedy.


	3. After

Theseus does not see the end of the war. No, he is confined to one of the permanent hospitals far from the trenches, wracked with fits that leave him gasping for breath. The healers cannot understand why he’s wracked with such pains still, though Theseus thinks it’s just his mind that has his body acting like this. A broken mind reaps a broken body and his magic has suffered for it. His voice too, deep and raspy now because of scarring. He doesn’t talk much anymore, finds that people stare at his throat when he does.   
  


Theseus spends most of his time awake wandering the garden out back, usually left alone by the staff since he’s mostly competent in taking care of himself when he’s not lost in his own head. He’s staring into the pond, drained of course, when one of the nurses comes up to him and happily tells him that the war is over. An armistice had been signed. He nearly collapses in relief.

 

The war was over.

 

People would stop dying.

 

It did not mean that his visions of blood and boney earth stopped, but eventually his fits stopped and only the bad dreams remained. He’s cleared to go home and practically runs back into his parents’ arms. He hides away for a year at the estate and Newt disappears into research and study of creatures. The Scamander brothers are absent from society for a long while, but Theseus eventually emerges when they want to give him a few medals. Something about fortitude and bravery, things he does not remember having.

 

The medals feel like dead bodies hanging from his breast pocket, but he smiles heroically for the camera. One of them has to maintain the family’s reputation, and it doesn’t look as though Newt will be there to do it. That’s alright. Theseus is the eldest. It’s his responsibility. So he puts on an act and makes a name for himself, a reputation that will hold them all up through the post-war austerity. 

 

It works in most part for his family, the spectacle dying down before long, but Theseus finds it a bit harder to return to normal. Where Newt thrives on running off to do research by himself, Theseus does not take to his old position as detective very well at all. He’s alone with his thoughts far too often. War tends to produce two types of men: those who just want to be left alone for the rest of their lives so they can forget and those who can never forget and must find a way to apply their invisible wounds to their life. Some do this successfully, but many don’t.

 

Theseus goes to his supervisor and tells it to him plainly. He needs a command position, people to look after. He needs to lead again. They give him a squad of five aurors, and immediately put him on a new case.

  
\---

 

_ The year after the end of the war still had a hazy place in your memory. It’s true you cannot recall much besides the smell of stale coffee and dust gathering on the surface of your nightstand, but your dreams are as vivid as ever. _

 

_ They always come in the same order: skeletons of your men crawling from the earth, your brother’s yellow eyes, and Graves’ hands around your bloody throat.  _

 

_ Sometimes he kills you, sometimes he saves you, but the breathlessness is always the same. You choke and gasp and wheeze, and still no air enters your lungs. Most frightening of all is your magic, which will not heed your command. It twists around the shrapnel in your throat and burns and you scream and he’s there, eyes glowing silver, teeth flashing white, hands wrapping around your throat, laughing as your blood coats his hands. The earth surges up to swallow you, another corpse to feed it. You can’t breathe, you can’t breathe, you can’t- _

 

_ You wake up on the floor again, shivering in a mess of blankets. It’s still dark, the usually busy street outside quiet. Probably four or five in the morning. You fumble for a smoke and light the cigarette, it’s red glow the only light in the room. The smoke burns your lungs and it calms you down, smoke pouring out your nose as you exhale. Your heart is not so easily soothed, still thumping wildly. It’s a terrible thing, being haunted by love. _

 

_ You flick the cigarette into the fire place and it flares to life, glowing green with floo powder. _

 

_ “Call Percival Graves,” you tell it. This has gone on long enough. _

 

_ The fire flares, rippling as it no doubt rings every fireplace in what you’re sure is an enormous family home the rich bastard is residing in. It peaks, and then in the fireplace is a familiar face. _

 

_ “What in the fuck do you think you’re doing calling me at 10 o’clock at night? Don’t you know this is my one night off-” he snaps, and then seems to recognize who he’s talking to. _

 

_ “Theseus?” he asks, voice soft.  _

 

_ “Hello Percival,” you say, scooting closer to the fireplace. Graves’ face is sharper than your remember, accentuated by a shorter haircut. It highlights his slightly pointed ears. _

 

_ “Theseus, what do you want?” Graves asks, studying your face. He sounds exhausted. You can relate. _

 

_ “I just wanted to hear your voice,” you confess quietly. “It’s been a long time.” _

 

_ “Over a year,” he agrees. He shifts, probably settling into a more comfortable position. “What’s on your mind?” _

 

_ Ah, you missed this. Having a mind as sharp as yours to bounce ideas off of. _

 

_ “You….you made it out alright? No wounds?” you ask, rubbing at the knotted scar at the base of your throat. “Seraphina, she’s well?” _

 

_ “We’re both fine,” Graves says, a brief grin flashing across his face. “Sera’s running for president you know.” _

 

_ He looks so proud that you can’t help but grin. _

 

_ “I look forward to seeing her in office. She always had a presence about her, too grand for the rest of us mere mortals.” _

 

_ Graves laughs and the fire curls in his mouth, the shape of those sharp teeth of his emerging against the brick backdrop. You shiver, pulling your knees close to your chest, resting your chin on them. _

 

_ “You, however,” Graves says, narrowing his eyes at you, “do not look as though you’re doing as well. Like the war is still with you. Tell me, what did you dream about?” _

 

_ Of course he knew what woke you. He always knew when you suffered night terrors, like he could smell it on you.  _

 

_ You take a deep breath and let the darkness pour from your mouth. Bones and rotted earth, viper eyes and blood. Hands wrapped around your throat. Graves listens, the deeping wrinkle between his brows the only sign of emotion on his face. He listens until you finish, voice trembling in the dark. Confessing that sometimes you’d wish your eyes didn’t open in the morning. _

 

_ “Thee.” And oh, that makes your throat hurt more than anything. “Thee, you promised me. That you’d live. That you’d write me if you needed me.” _

 

_ “I can’t,” you whisper, putting your face in your palms. You’d ask him back if you wrote him. You’d beg him to come to you, and he would. You can see it on his face, he aches to come through even now. You can’t bring yourself to do that to you both, to ensnare him in the recesses of your heart again. _

 

_ “Then at least go back to sleep. You’re not doing anyone any good being awake at whatever godforsaken hour it is there.” _

 

_ “Five in the morning,” you say and Graves makes a sound of disgust. You laugh and lay down, tucking one of the blankets under your head for a pillow. _

 

_ “There you go. Now close your eyes, I’ll keep watch til you fall asleep.” _

 

_ Still so kind, even after everything you did to him. You suppose it’s simply in his nature, soft beneath those sharp teeth and haughty expression. His voice is deep and steady as he talks, telling you about all that you’ve missed in the past year. _

 

_ The ache in your heart becomes a gaping wound, torn open again by gentle words. _

 

_ Why do you do this to yourself? _

 

\---  
  
  


It takes him nearly a year and a half, but he eventually writes to Graves, who is now head of the Magical Security department at MACUSA. The youngest ever. Theseus is surprised when he gets a six page letter back, first scolding him for taking so long to write ( _ Three years Theseus! Three years the war has been over! He says. _ ), instructions to keep writing, and finally a page long apology. Theseus does not feel he deserves to be apologized to, but replies to the letter anyways.

 

He writes about the softness of the grass at home, how warm the earth seems compared to the trenches. Writes of his parents and their businesses, of training his aurors, and brags with pride about Newt’s apprenticeship abroad. He also brags about his own work, stating that he is working directly with the Unspeakables.

 

Graves writes back that he’s  _ in charge _ of America’s Unspeakables. Nearly six thousand kilometers away and he’s still being unbearably proud. Theseus can’t help but try to upstage him, gives word that he’ll soon be involved in undercover work himself. Second only to the Minister in some matters.

 

Three months later, he receives no letter, only a photograph of Graves standing besides the new president of the Magical United States at her inauguration. On the back is a single sentence.

 

_ I think this wins the game, don’t you? _

 

Theseus laughs, really laughs, for the first time in a long while. He frames the picture and sets it on his desk, Graves and Seraphina Picquery glaring out at him. He often finds himself complaining to them when he’s having a particularly trying day at work, knowing they’d commiserate with his opinion that most government workers are idiots.

 

“Bureaucracy,” he says one day, staring at all the paper around him, “Is the bane of man’s existence on this earth.”

 

“Oh Scamander, how young you are.”

 

He looks up to see the head auror Madam Smythe in his doorway. He hurriedly stands but she waves him back into his seat.

 

“I mean, you’re not wrong, but you’re still young. You’ve seen nothing of bureaucracy yet.”

 

“Thank you ma’am….I suppose?”

 

“You’re welcome. Now, I’ve got a job for you. Think you’re up to a solo mission?”

 

Theseus knows he is, because at this moment he’d do anything to get out of this office. He’d jump out the window if she’d asked, and leave all this paperwork behind. Still, he gives her a shrewd look.

“What exactly is it you’re looking for me to do?”

 

“I’m sending you on an investigation. We’ve got a big problem-”

 

“The new extremist groups,” said Theseus, interrupting.

 

Smythe nodded.. 

 

“The name Grindelwald is starting to appear again,” the head auror tells him, looking over her spectacles at him. “Find out why. You are not to engage if you do come across him. Am I clear?”

 

He grins, mind already racing with the possibilities. He grins.

 

_ “Crystal.” _

  
The hunt is on once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you follow me on Tumblr and are wondering where Louis is, he will be appearing in the sequel to this fic.


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